


Before You Can Rebuild, You've Got to Come Undone

by abstractconcept



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha Gabe Landeskog, Alpha Joe Sakic, Alpha Patrick Roy, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Avalanche, Avs, Blowjobs, Colorado Avalanche, Filth, Gangbang, Jealousy, M/M, Omega Verse, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Public Sex, Smut, Spitroast, Voyeurism, omega Matt Duchene, rebuild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5770903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avs are in the midst of a rebuild, and they have a problem--too many omegas. The team needs to find a way to balance the hormones in the locker room. The easy solution? Stake powerful omega Matt Duchene out in the backyard and have . . . tryouts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know much about omegaverse stuff, so I just sort of played with it however I wanted. Also, the timeline is, of course, not correct for the events of the past few years. This is just a fic done to let off steam. Also, bonus! A close friend read it and wrote an addition to this verse and it quickly became my headcanon, so you will find her marvelous writing attached as its own chapter. :)
> 
> Based on thesinbin prompt:  
> So, uh, Sakic and Roy want to rebuild their hockey team. Hockey teams are generally a whole lot of alphas and one omega that they're all more or less compatible with. So they build a team around their young star center, Matty Duchene. By, uh, taking him out when he's in heat and drafting everyone who is drawn to fuck him. Like, maybe with world building, it's a thing; a meet of some sort where hockey hopefuls go. Or maybe Matt goes out to find people for the team. Or maybe they just tie him to a stake in the backyard and wait to see who shows up, lol. I don't really care.

“We need to make some changes.” Patrick had rarely seen Joe look so serious.  
  
“Yeah, I can agree on that. We got to change some things if we want to turn thing around,” Patrick concurred. He accepted a glass of brandy from Joe and sipped it, despite the fact that it wasn’t his drink. He sank into one of Joe’s overstuffed leather chairs and sighed. They were in a bad position, and no mistake. The last coach had fucked the team up good. “We got too many omega,” he observed.  
  
“They’re better defensively,” Joe told him. He sat across from Patrick. “Or so the conventional wisdom goes.”  
  
Patrick swished his drink around the bottom of his glass, looking Joe over. Joe was a hard guy to read—taciturn, unexpressive, aloof. But Patrick had known him a long time. “You want to try something,” he guessed.  
  
Joe lifted his shoulders just slightly. “We _have_ to try something,” he replied in his quiet voice.  
  
Patrick felt something tighten in his chest. “You want to try with Matty.”  
  
Joe averted his eyes. “It makes good business sense. The team is out of whack, and he’s potent.” Joe sighed and leaned forward. “He could be just what this team needs, Patty. A young omega with a powerful draw. We could build the team around him. Just let them get a sniff, Patty. Just a _sniff,_ and we’ll have ourselves a team.”  
  
Patrick let out a long breath through his nose. He looked over Joe’s shoulder, at the painting hanging on the wall. It was ugly as shit, he felt. One of those things you buy because the decorator says so, not because you like it. He huffed.  
  
Joe didn’t push. It wasn’t his style.  
  
Patrick sipped his brandy and grimaced as it burned its way down his throat. “You know it won’t be that easy.”  
  
Joe nodded. “Never is. But, well, if you want to win . . .”  
  
Patrick ground his teeth. “Matty is _mine_ ,” he growled.  
  
Joe shrugged. “It’s your team.”  
  
Yes, there was that. The whole team was his, as much as it was Joe’s, though Matty was his specially. He forced himself to calm down. He wasn’t rational about Matt Duchene, and he knew it. His own alpha instincts sometimes clouded his judgment. He tried to compartmentalize, to put aside the memory of the taste of him, the smell of him. It would be best for the team. Two more alphas would be coming off the books this year, at least they would if Hejduk retired. The chemistry was off. It was time to try something new.  
  
Besides, he did love showing Matty off. Patrick couldn’t suppress the urge to grin a little. He had taken Matt out before, even during a heat. Patrick was that confident. He was the alpha of all alphas, and no one had ever crossed him. He liked taking Matty out to dinner on such nights, walking beside him, his hand on the small of the boy’s back, watching the heads turn, all eyes hungry. They’d never had a lick of trouble, except for that time in Vegas when they were asked to leave the restaurant—because Matt’s omega draw was ‘bothering the other diners,’ they said.  
  
Patrick would be in control of this.  
  
“All right,” he finally agreed. “I will talk to Matt.”

oOoOoOo

 

“You sure you’re going to be okay?”  
  
Matt warmed at the concern in Joe’s voice. “I want to do whatever I can to help the team,” he assured the man, who looked at him steadily. Matt wiggled his shoulders, eager to get started. It was going to be great. He had discussed the whole plan in detail with Patty and then, later, with Joe, but this was go-time, and he was well into his heat. He couldn’t concentrate just then on Joe’s concerns, not with the man standing near him, the heat radiating off his body, the apple green tang of his scent making the tip of Matt’s tongue prickle. “Please,” Matt added.  
  
Joe blinked a little, and Matt knew he was taking in his dilated eyes and flushed face. Joe smiled. “Go get ‘em, kid.”  
  
He patted Matt on the head and Matt grinned. Joe Sakic, his hero, petting him. He’d never dreamt he’d mean so much to his team, or that Joe would look at him like that.  
  
They were out back of Joe’s sprawling house that backed onto the open space, having drinks on the veranda. It was a cool night, nice for early summer. Matt was in a good mood. He’d taken half a pill early that morning. It wasn’t a full dose, because he didn’t want to block the heat completely, but it would prevent any pregnancy.  
  
There was a sharp tug on his leash, and Matt blinked. “That’s enough,” Patty grunted. “Let him do his job. We got you already, he don’t need to get you on board.” Though his voice was joking, Matt could sense the tension in the air as the two alphas squared off. Matt wondered how they’d ever played on a team together. And he wondered, as he often had since meeting Patrick, how it was that Joe Sakic had been the captain. Not that he didn’t respect Joe tremendously, but Patty had more than his respect. He had the fire in his belly, the quick mind and enormous physical strength needed to be a leader. Matt looked from one man to the other. They both stared at each other, ignoring him.  
  
No one spoke, but Matt’s keen omega senses were busily taking in all the stimuli, and _what a story it told_ —even Joe Sakic was responding to Matt’s pheromones, his alpha nature ticking over like a clock, his cool walls breaking down. Matt drank in his fevered scent; the president looked as impassive as ever, but Matt could taste him in the air and knew his instinct was to take Matt now—to breed. Matt’s mouth watered at the musk in the air, sexual enough to make him weak in the knees. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t had his fantasies, but the older man was fastidious, in control, and never took advantage of his position.  
  
Ordinarily Matt was deferential to the man, shy even, but now he looked him square in the eye, unabashed. Joe looked at him for a long moment, his dark blue eyes hot and hungry. Then he blinked, slowly, and turned to Patrick.  
  
“You’re right,” he said in a mild voice. “We should get moving. Stake him out and then we can observe from the deck.”  
  
Matt blinked a little. Was he being _rejected?_ Here, now, with his pheromones full force? That wasn’t possible. He was the number one omega in his draft year—he forced every alpha in miles to sync with him. He knew, because he got complaining calls from their fucking girlfriends. They’d literally had to lock Matt up at the combine, because he’d driven half the draft year mad with lust. But Joe was walking away, dress shoes clicking on the concrete. He lifted a finger above his shoulder, crooked it, beckoning Patrick to follow him.  
  
Patrick gave Matt’s leash a tug, but he stood rooted to the spot, staring blankly after the man. It wasn’t fair. Didn’t Joe understand how bad he _needed_ it? Patrick tugged again. “Come on, don’t be stubborn,” he grunted. “You make me look bad.”  
  
Matt shook his head a little, trying to get a hold of himself. So one alpha didn’t want a go at him. So what? Plenty more would, and as Patrick pointed out, they already had Joe. Still, the situation rankled a little. He was good. Couldn’t Joe see how good he was? He could make Joe Sakic see he was good.  
  
Patrick nearly had to drag him out into the middle of the yard. Matt’s heat had completely enveloped him, and logical thought had begun to recede under an ocean of instinct and need. As Patrick contended with the complex lock on his collar, Matt nuzzled his shoulder.  
  
“Uh-uh,” the man countered.  
  
“Please,” Matt murmured. One of his arms wound its way around the man’s shoulders, clutching his back. He pressed close to Patrick, drinking in his warmth and scent. It was strong and comforting. He began to rub against the man’s thigh. “Please, please, Patrick,” he grunted against Patrick’s shirt.  
  
“Stop that,” Patrick said, but his words lacked any real heat. Matt knew he was pleased, in a way, because Joe could see. He rubbed his thumb over Matt’s chin. “Come on, be a good boy.” He unbuttoned Matt’s jeans and tugged them down.  
  
Matt was dizzy with lust. This wasn’t how a heat was supposed to go. He needed to be fucked, and soon. “Please,” he begged again. “Just let me—just let me—rub against you.” He nuzzled Patrick’s neck. “Just let me rut against your leg.”  
  
Patrick’s laugh was warm and rich. “Don’t waste time on leg humping. You will get enough leg soon, pet.” He tugged on the collar and Matt whined helplessly, though he let himself be led. There were a series of metal loops staked into the ground, almost like croquet wickets. Two were small, and one was quite large. Patrick bent him over the largest bar, then attached his wrists to the two smaller loops.  
  
“You okay?” Patrick asked, slapping his ass. “You ready?”  
  
“ _So_ ready,” Matt said with a sigh. He didn’t think he’d ever been so turned on in his life.  
  
“Good. I am gonna add some extra lube, okay? Gonna be a long night for you, and I don’t wanna take any chance.”  
  
Matt nodded hard. He wished Patrick would leave. Having an alpha like Patrick around would drive off any potential suitors who knew they couldn’t compete. His scent, delicious to Matt’s submissive omega senses, the yang to his yin, would be fearsome to lesser alphas.  
  
Trussed up and bent nearly double, Matt felt his throat begin to constrict. There were new scents in the air, things he’d never smelled before. They were different from Patrick, but still masculine and exciting and new. He stiffened, holding his breath, straining to hear and see. “Patrick,” he whispered.  
  
“I know, mon bebe. I was just going to stretch you out.” Patrick brandished a dildo in front of him.  
  
“No,” Matt grunted.  
  
“First few are probably not going to be gentle or patient with you,” Patrick warned.  
  
“Don’t care. Don’t want it.” Matt struggled against his bonds, not because he wanted to get away, but because he wanted things to go faster. Everything was in his way—the chains, Patrick’s presence, Joe up on the deck—Patrick made to touch him and he snarled, a purely feral sound. There were men out there—out beyond the reach of the floodlight—and Matt wanted them. He wanted to sniff them out, choose his own, although he knew he couldn’t. A guy would have to beat out the other alphas this way, to have a go at him, and that was what Patty and Joe wanted. They were looking for size and strength, not just compatibility. He stared hard at the shadows deep in the trees, knowing there was someone there, someone _good_ and _big_ and _hungry for him_ looking back. “Leave,” he grunted. “If you’re not gonna fuck me, get away because I really need cock right now, and you are—just—please. Fuck me or go.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Patrick said, sidling back. “You want it that way, I’m not gonna stop you.” Then he hesitated, bent at the waist, and pressed a kiss to Matty’s hair, now damp with perspiration. “Mon Trésor,” he muttered, “you reel in some big ones, okay?”  
  
Matt didn’t answer. The heat was on him, and words were no longer enough.

oOoOoOo

Gabe paced just beyond the tree line, watching. Not that he didn’t know what was going on; a good portion of the alpha draft class and several pending UFAs had got invitations. Gabe knew the score—it was the equivalent of a try-out, really. They wanted to see what you were like. The draft was coming right up and they wanted to have a good idea of who would get on with whom, so to speak.  
  
Gabe leaned against a tree, wiping his forehead. There were waves of scent beckoning him forward, messing with his head. He shivered hard, trying to throw off the grip of the omega staked out in the lawn. He dragged his tongue over his teeth, trying to keep control. The night air smelled hot and humid, like jasmine or some crazy shit, something wild and floral. Gabe knew it wasn’t real. It was all in his head—all in his hormones. Omegas could do you like that if you weren’t careful, make you think up was down and fantasy was reality.  
  
Not that it mattered. His erection was real enough, and the omega tied down out there was real enough, and every inch of Gabe wanted to go out there and fuck him until that omega sure as hell knew he was for real.  
  
Gabe sucked in a shaky breath and dragged his palm down the side of the tree, feeling his fingers trace the cracks in the bark.  
  
“You gonna stand around all night?”  
  
Gabe turned to find Ryan Nugent-Hopkins beside him hands on hips, smirking. Gabe usually considered him a friend. Usually. Gabe smiled back. “No. I’m not.”  
  
It took Gabe twenty minutes to fight through the throng and break out into the clearing. Ryan, luckily, had gone down easy. Gabe appreciated that. He’d buy the guy a drink later, make up for the black eye he’d given him. He scrapped with another alpha, but the guy had bowed out. To Gabe it was clear that he was really only there to test himself against the other guys—the omega wasn’t doing it for him. There was no chemistry there.  
  
There were still several men there—boys, really—warily looking around, waiting to make their move. But every time someone edged toward the omega, a scuffle ensued. Everyone was on edge. It was hard to think clearly, when there was a fresh, sexy body out there, all yours for the taking, aching for your cock. The scent of him was everywhere, like pepper, aggressive and needy, begging to be fucked.  
  
Gabe shook himself. This was his big chance. He’d spent years working on this, to come to the NHL, learning English, learning the customs. He wasn’t some dumbfuck alpha, a slave to his instincts. He fucking thought things out. He _planned._ He didn’t just fuck and fight.  
  
Couturier stepped out of the shadows. His ginger hair was wild, but his eyes were wilder, and there was something really confident about his bearing, the straightness of his back. He walked across the grass without any hint of apprehension, like it was a joke. He didn’t even acknowledge Gabe; he never took his eyes off the swell of the omega’s perfect ass. He—he _swaggered_ over to the omega with a faint smile, like he thought he was some kind of big shot.  
  
Gabe hit him like a freight train.  
  
So much for Gabe, the smart alpha, the different alpha.  
  
Couturier hit back, and the two of them pounded on each other, flesh smacking against flesh, until Gabe caught him in the jaw with a hard right hook and he stumbled back. Gabe wanted to roar.  
  
In the span of seconds, the world had shifted.  
  
Now he wasn’t some punk kid trying out for something.  
  
He was an alpha, and there on the lawn was an omega, and it was all very simple. He had to protect the omega, claim the omega, fuck the omega, and show his dominance.  
  
Simple, but not easy.  
  
Couturier just sat there in the grass, leaning back on his elbows, looking kind of surprised. Gabe lunged toward him and he scrambled away, low to the ground, submissive now, acknowledging that Gabe was the better fighter.  
  
Gabe reached out, dragged a hand through Matt Duchene’s hair. Yes, he knew that. He knew the smell. Duch . . . Dutchy. Two syllables. He could handle two, at least if he tried. There were still other guys there, other alphas. Waiting. Wanting a turn. He growled at them, deep in his throat, and they fell back another step or two. Good. That was good.  
  
Gabe leaned in, close, trailed his nose over Dutchy’s spine, feeling a frisson of fear follow in its wake. He could claim him, yes. But there was another. The scent was strong, rubbed in hard and good over weeks and months and years, a _Mine_ that Gabe would have to respect. But right now, he could see no other alpha came forward.  
  
He brought his face close to Dutchy’s. It was flushed, eyes glassy. Dutchene licked his lips, mouth forming voiceless, wordless, shapeless supplications.  
  
The scent of Matt was making him dizzy. Gabe rested his face on Matt’s back, drinking him in, feeling his hot skin like a brand. He was so hard that it actually hurt, an ache in his chest, a tightness in his balls. He wanted to pin Matt down and fuck him until he couldn’t walk. He breathed deeply feeling something shift inside of him, his heart racing, his breath taking on a new rhythm. He could literally hear Duchene’s pulse, and his own thudding heart was adjusting accordingly.  
  
He’d never done anything like this. He’d never found his biorhythm seamlessly, effortlessly altered by some—some boy. No other omega had ever done anything like this to him.  
  
Matt hung there, muscles bunching and squirming, eyes hazy, his whole body a squirming slutty, slinky broadcast of _need_ and _now_ and whimpering surrender. Gabe had never come across anything like this before.  
  
“You’re strong,” Dutchy groaned. “That’s so good. You’re so good. Need a strong mate . . . strong _teammate,_ ” he grunted. He shifted his shoulders, squirming in his bonds, and he looked so perfect and fuckable that Gabe nearly drooled. Even bent double, he managed to shift, thrusting his ass higher, _presenting_ , and Gabe’s cock swelled in his pants, rising, hard and hungry.  
  
Gabe got a hold of himself and glared at him, then spun and snarled at Granlund, who’d been sneaking up behind. “Mine,” he shouted. He stared them down, growling, “Claimed. _MINE_.”  
  
The other alphas didn’t leave, but they fell back. The pecking order had been established.  
  
Matt was whimpering now, wriggling in his bonds, becoming more desperate. It heightened Gabe’s own sense of urgency—it was like an alarm bell clanging, blood rushing hot in his ears. His mate _needed_ him, and _wanted_ him, and it was driving him to distraction. _His mate’s needs were not met. He could not fail his mate._

Head swimming in a fog of hormones, Gabe positioned himself behind the omega, thankful Matt was already tied down and prepped because he was too overcome to take things slow. He grabbed Matt’s hips and thrust, hard, sheathing himself completely, and Matt let out a noise of pleasure. Gabe fucked him hard and fast, shifting his grip from hips to shoulders, looking for leverage on that slick skin.  
  
Matt was begging, whimpering, hot and sweet inside, like he was just fucking made for Gabe. Gabe had never had anything like this before, a guy tied up, bent over, just laid out for him like dinner. He used the omega mercilessly, feeling Matt thrust back against him, like he still wanted more. He could dimly feel the men around him, a shadowy circle, watching, moaning softly.  
  
He leaned low over Matt’s back, drinking in his scent. He’d never felt anything like this before. The omega was restrained, helpless, quivering in his bonds, but somehow Gabe felt like the vulnerable one. Here, now, he wanted to claim Matt—but then he wanted to keep him, too. He wanted to fight off the other alphas, take care of him, be gentle with him, keep him close.  
  
“You’re so good,” he grunted, hips flexing. “So good.”  
  
Matt slammed his hips back, and Gabe came, feeling spasm after spasm as he spent himself in that tight hole.  
  
“More,” Matt whimpered.  
  
Gabe blinked.  
  
“ _More_ ,” the omega growled.  
  
Gabe laughed a little. “Anything you say, baby.”  
  
He lost track of how many times he came, how many times Matt came. They were caught in an endless heat, bodies fused together. His higher brain wasn’t working—it was all instinct, scent and passion. He felt Matty constricting around him, welcoming him, wanting him. He could feel his own heart beat in time with the omega’s, his breath matching, and whenever Matt’s pleasure began to build, Gabe’s followed.  
  
The next time Matt came, Gabe was nearly undone. He’d never been in that situation before; it was exhilarating, but in another way, it was overwhelming. He didn’t quite feel in control of himself. He lay limply on Matt’s back, panting a little. “You’re . . . I never felt anything like that before.”  
  
Matt glanced over his shoulder, his eyes glassy and not entirely present. He wiggled a little in his restraints. “More,” he replied succinctly.  
  
Gabe grinned. “Much as you want,” he promised breathlessly. “I’ll give you anything.”  
  
Matt laughed softly. He must have known he had Gabe wrapped around his finger. “You ready for another ride, cowboy?” he growled.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Gabe purred, but before he could plunge forward again, he felt something cover his mouth and nose.  
  
Instantly, the world shut off.  
  
Instead of sex and need and supplication, there were the stars, bright in the sky, and below, the floodlights, with clouds of moths, and men, men all around, many of them with their zips down. Gabe’s forehead wrinkled. A large hand gripped his shoulder.  
  
“Come on,” someone said in his ear. “You did good. Come upstair and have a drink. Joe want to meet you.”  
  
Gabe slid out of the omega. There was a handkerchief pressed to his face. He’d heard about stuff like that before—that there were chemicals that neutralized an omega’s scent. He was thinking more clearly than he’d done in . . . hours, probably.  
  
He turned to find Patrick Roy next to him. “Okay,” he said, pushing the man’s arm away. Now he could smell again—not just the omega, but another scent. It was familiar, something he’d encountered recently.  
  
“Come on.” Patrick slung an arm around his shoulders and steered him toward the steps to the deck. Gabe staggered toward the steps, sucking in breaths of fresh air—and other scents. “Let’s get you clean up so the rest can get on with it,” Roy told him. Gabe couldn’t help his head swiveling, his body still aching for the omega he was leaving behind.  
  
“Matt,” Gabe’s sluggish tongue managed. Patrick looked at him. “He belongs to you.”  
  
Roy paused, smiled. “Yeah. That is true.”  
  
Gabe squared his shoulders. “Not for long,” he promised. He and Roy stared at each other. Patrick Roy had an inch of height and a lot of cunning on him, but Gabe had more than twenty years and a hell of a forecheck. They would just have to see who would come out on top in a fight.  
  
For a moment, Gabe thought that fight would happen right then and there; he could smell the irritation rolling off Roy like a miasma.  
  
But then Patrick arched his brow. “We will see about that,” was all he said.  
  
That was good enough for Gabe.

oOoOoOo

 

Joe Sakic watched the activity below intently. Every so often, he would pause and make a note or two regarding his observations. His scouts had given him a list of things to watch for, and this had been very helpful. He’d gotten a good idea of which prospects would be a good match with his alpha and suitably strong for his team. There were a couple he liked a lot. Landeskog, he felt, was just what the team needed. He wasn’t just an alpha, he was, potentially, a real power alpha. Didn’t see those often, especially not out of Europe. But then Joe had to smile a little, remembering Peter. Maybe it wasn’t so rare; maybe it was just a way of looking at things.

In addition to the prospects, free agents had also been invited, and a few players from the current roster had been allowed a go, to see how well they matched up. Joe was very pleased with the results. It was clear that Matt had a real hold on a good portion of the guys out there, and that boded very well. As Joe had hoped, it looked like the boy would have a powerful ability to bring teammates into a sort of harmony with him.

It had been an entertaining show, as well. For a good chunk of time in the beginning, Matt and Gabe had rutted like fevered animals, bodies heaving and thrusting and writhing and bucking—and the noise! Joe hoped the neighbors didn’t end up calling the cops. He had a fairly spacious lot, but at one point Matt squalled like a feral cat. All of that didn’t faze Joe. No, what got to him were the damn scents. Matt was, as Joe had already discovered, a heady and delectable asset. Joe had not been tempted that way in . . . well, ever. There was something nectarous, yet musky about Matt, something almost sinfully sugary. Joe couldn’t help but wonder, as he stared down at the glistening, humping bodies, if Matt tasted as good as he smelled. He wondered if he felt like melted sugar inside, his tight ass, so sweet it was almost painful. And then there was Gabe’s smell, too. Gabe’s scent was almost as powerful as Matt’s, and it made Joe’s nerves all jangly, made him feel tense and irritated. Joe could tell that Patrick felt it too.

Patrick had sulked for most of Gabe and Matt’s coupling, looking closer to a tantrum with each sound, each sigh, each moment. Joe felt a bid bad for him, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but find it a little amusing. It was so very . . . Patrick, sitting there, tense but patient, with narrowed eyes taking every little movement, guarded, hunched over in the crease as though any moment he’d have to come up big and block a tough shot.

Too bad, buddy. All the pucks had to go in tonight.

But after awhile, even Joe’s interest began to flag. He’d learned everything he needed about Landeskog, and the big dumb alpha would mate all night if they let him, keeping all the other potential players away. Eventually Joe sighed and motioned for Patrick to go down. After Gabe was out of the way, things progressed rapidly.

Some of the other guys on the roster tried Dutchy out; Nick Holden had taken a brief turn before EJ pulled rank. Holden resisted for several minutes, but finally ceded his place. It was interesting; Holden was a beta, but a rather wishy-washy guy in general. He seemed . . . okay with Duchene, but Joe had a sense he wasn’t giving it his all.

EJ had obviously enjoyed himself, but to Joe’s surprise, had, with no apparent ill-feeling, given way to a newcomer, the young Tyson Barrie. Joe didn’t know what to make of that. Was Matt’s omega-ish charisma leading the men to synchronize, to adjust to each other and work together? Or was Tyson Barrie a much stronger alpha than expected? Or was it simply that EJ was in a particularly good mood, sated by a previous encounter with someone else? It was impossible to know for sure, but Joe was intrigued. He made a note to keep a close eye on Barrie. The guy had showed up for this, a veritable orgy, in a tasteful and well-tailored charcoal three piece suit. Even Joe had stared, incredulous, taking in the vest and tie. Whatever else he was, it was plain that Barrie meant business. Of course, three minutes in the same vicinity as the omega had stripped Barrie of his pretensions—and his clothing. Still, he had undressed slowly, though his fingers were clumsy and trembling, and he had taken time to fold everything precisely before mounting the omega.

By the time the more powerful alphas were out of the way, the others came in, as well as the betas and even another omega or two. Everyone had run greedy hands over Matt’s body as he reveled in their attentions. As Joe watched, several men converged, and then three were on him—two from the back and one in his mouth, a tangle of pulsing, groaning men. Joe shifted, feeling warm.

He took a sip of his ginger ale. Gabe had been given a (discreet) glass of champagne in celebration of his achievement, but Joe needed a clear head. He was there on business.

Gabe sat nearby, a towel slung over his shoulders, his hair still wet from a quick shower. He was leaned forward, on the edge of his seat, watching proceedings, but his body was very still. Joe had to admit, he was impressed. He could smell the omega from here, and it was really something. And Gabe had mated, so the call would be even stronger, yet here he was, resisting mightily. Real character.

Patrick, too, twitched occasionally, but Patrick Roy lived by no rules, not man’s, and sure as fuck not mother nature’s. He had too much pride to admit that he was jealous and angry and horny as hell. Still, every so often, he’d scowl at one of Matt’s partners, and Joe felt just a bit sorry for the boy; he doubted Matt’s hard night would be over when Patrick got him home.

A fusion of summery, sexual musks wafted up, and Joe drank it in deeply, feeling everything shift a little. He knew his eyes were dilating, his pulse quickening. The smell was much more agreeable now that the alphas weren’t quite so pungent, the betas and omegas creating a much more pleasant aroma of pleasure and seduction. Joe shifted a little, his cock hard against his leg, restrained by his pants.

Matt cried out, a sound that hit Joe’s libido like a tuning fork. His very soul cried out with the same rising yearning.

This was becoming objectionable. Joe felt out of his depth for once, discomposed. It was bothersome. He was a rational man, a cool head to balance out Patrick’s occasional temper-tantrums.

Below, lit up by the flood lights, the players played. Matt was like a new toy, an unending source of joy. He loved every minute, Joe could tell, swallowing cock like a professional, making hungry little sounds, his eyes squeezed shut like a contented cat.

Joe undid his collar button. It was a warm night—somewhat overly warm for Joe’s taste.

He gazed at the evening’s entertainment, watching large hands pawing and groping, digging into Matt’s skin, pale as the moonlight. He never ended up with too much of a tan, even when he’d spent a summer out on the lake. He looked good, though. Joe leaned forward, resting his chin on tented fingers. His trousers were also tenting. He glanced at his companions, but he was of no interest to them. Gabe had fallen asleep in his seat, head fallen back, jaw slack. Patrick rose and went down the stairs, but made no move to approach the undulating puddle of men, just standing and watching.

Well, what the hell.

One of the men pulled back from Matt’s mouth, gave his cock a couple of rough tugs, and groaned as his semen gushed out thickly, spurting over Matt’s chest, a little hitting his chin and dribbling down as the omega cried out, a wobbly, petulant thin noise that seemed to complain of a treat taken away. But just as quickly, another man took the prior’s place, cupping Matt’s chin and rubbing his eager prick over Matt’s lips. Matt accepted the new offering greedily, making noisy, needful sounds and slurping in a way Joe would usually find repellant.

Tonight, every little snuffle and moan went straight to Joe’s cock, heat building in his belly. He cautiously undid his fly, allowing his prick to slide out, still hardening and rising in the warm night air. He held it cupped for several moments, but no one was looking. He began to stroke himself, watching Matt suck cock with a look of ecstasy Joe hadn’t seen before. A couple of the other men removed the restraints on Matt’s feet, holding his ankles and lifting him up. One man had each ankle, spreading his thighs wide, suspended in the air, so another man could fuck him. It didn’t look too comfortable, but Matt sure wasn’t complaining.

Someone dragged a hand through Matt’s hair, fisting it, pulling his head back, contorting him. Matt’s back was arched, and, as he was basically pulled off the cock he was sucking, he began to beg and curse and praise, all interspersed with the filthiest phrases, the sorts of things Joe never expected to hear from that mouth.

He pumped his cock, watching intently as Matt was fucked to near oblivion.

Finally he was set down again, more restraints being taken off and put on. He was on his feet—barely—and his hands were tugged roughly behind his back. Still, he managed to be bent nearly double, his entire body jerking forward with each thrust, no longer cursing, but his mouth still open and his lip quivering.

Patrick was pacing.

Joe nodded in approval as the guy fucking Matt transferred both wrists into one hand, so he could pull the boy’s hair again. For some reason, Matt seemed to be wild about having his hair pulled, wordless noises of pleasure spilling out. His scent was pure sex now, not so much sweet as hot, like the thick, clinging smoke of sandalwood.

“Oh, f-f-fuck, that’s—it’s s-s-so gooooood,” Matt stuttered. The man inside him orgasmed, fingers pressing into Matt’s sweaty, sexy hips. Then he withdrew, his come drooling down the back of Matt’s cock and balls.

Matt straightened, stretching, and looked over his shoulder at Joe. Joe could see the smile in the kid’s eyes, an entirely too-knowing smile. Still stretching, Matt bent over, legs spread, reaching down and twisting, running a lazy hand down his left leg and wrapping it around his ankle, then repeating the process for his right leg, working out the kinks now that there was a break in the action. Then, he reached back, running seductive hands over the swell of his ass—and then spread his cheeks, a swollen little pink pucker that spurted another splash of come as Joe watched.

Joe ground his teeth, bit back as much of his groan as he could, his grip tight on his swollen, pulsing cock, and spattered his seed onto the polished wood of the deck. For a moment he was shocked at his loss of control. This just wasn’t how things worked, in his experience. He didn’t come hither just because some little omega winked at him. Until now, anyway, he thought ruefully as he moved his drink to grab his napkin and clean up.

Patrick trudged back up the steps a few minutes later.

“You think they almost done yet?” he asked grumpily.

“There may be a few late-comers, a straggler or two, but I think it’s winding down,” Joe assured him.

Heaving a sigh, Patrick dropped back into the chair next to him. “Soon as he finish, I will grab him up, take him inside for a quick shower. Then we stay in the guest room, okay? I don’t think his feet carry him to the car after all this, let alone up to his apartment.”

“Sure, Patty,” Joe replied with uncharacteristic warmth. He jiggled his glass. The ice had almost all melted.

Patrick looked at him suspiciously, but then shrugged.

Joe stood. “I’m going to go and get some ice. You want me to refresh your drink?”

“Eh, why not?” Patrick agreed, lifting his glass.

Joe smiled. “It’s been a real good night,” he told his coach. “Set your mind at rest. It’ll be over soon. He did good. Kid’s a natural.”

This drew a wry smile out of Patty. “I sure know that, don’t need to show me.”

“I know. You’ve been very patient tonight. And you will sleep a lot sounder knowing that things worked out so well and that our rebuild is going to really start shaping up now.”

Patrick tapped Joe’s glass with his own. “To our talent young forward,” he said.

Joe grinned and glanced down at the men below. Matt was sprawled in the grass now, another man on top of him, their movements now slower and more intimate, hands splaying and trailing and tracing, all very leisurely, two men gently rocking together in the grass. Joe clinked his glass against Patrick’s. “May he be a part of our core for a long time to come.”


	2. Open Until Filled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a little bonus story written by a close friend who enjoyed my version of an omegaverse featuring Brent Seabrook testing free agency . . . and Matt Duchene. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from the Author: Millions of years ago when I first saw your prompt, I was envisioning a more controlled, clinical setting, like in a sleep lab where there's a "bedroom" but it's more like a movie set. And I was imagining Avs admin observing everything through one-way glass, you know, taking notes. The invitee would go into like an outer office area and answer questions and stuff, and then he'd be shown into the room where the omega was waiting, and it would be go time. Then I read your own take, with the backyard setting and Matty staked out there, and that supplanted the lab setting in my mind. I still couldn't help thinking of the job interview aspect of it, though, and I also wondered, Okay, what about alphas that might be on the Avs' radar who aren't brand new to the league, and who aren't already in the area? What about trades or free agency? Well, I figured this would be handled the way all that sort of business is handled…through agents. Calls are taken, and arrangements are made, and then…this. I figure a player who was both a veteran and an alpha would not need to be there to fight off the rookies; he would just have to show up and show what he could do. And since I know you've long coveted Seabs, I thought he was, ah, the right man for the job.   
> Also, I know I was hand-wavey about the process of free agency—and that if Seabs were ever allowed to reach free agency, there would be PLENTY of interest in him—but let's face it, that wasn't really the important part of the story, was it? ;)

He'd been given the heads-up on how this was going to go. Show up on the appointed night, at the appointed place—which, as his GPS twisted him through the streets, he now realized was going to be someone's residence, which was a little weird—and there it would be. A job opportunity. If the bosses liked what they saw from him, if he got on well with the team, they might make him an offer.

Of course, it wasn't a couple of suits in a conference room waiting for him. It was an omega in heat, and if what he'd heard about this type of meeting was true, he was probably naked and tied up somewhere. He shifted slightly in the driver's seat; he was getting hard thinking about it.

But he was nervous too. This was his first time testing free agency and it hadn't gone exactly as he'd expected. He'd had some interesting offers. He was pretty sure the Blackhawks could match them, but he didn't want to assume that they would. (He could ask Saader about that.) True, he wanted to stay in Chicago anyway, and he didn't hate the hometown discount thing. But it sucked that the bottom line was always about money.  

Then his agent had called him, saying Colorado wanted a meeting. No, not that kind of meeting. It was a very specialized type of rebuild the Avs were attempting, not one that could be achieved with mere numbers on paper. They needed to balance the alpha/omega dynamic, and that, as it happened, required meeting their very gifted forward, Matt Duchene, face-to-face. Or doggy-style, or perhaps on a tabletop or up against a wall.  

Well then.

He'd been uncertain at first. He loved the idea of staying in Chicago; he fit in well in there, and the balance of power was good. But the more he thought about it, the more he was intrigued to know what the Avs saw in him. Obviously they wanted guys who were good at hockey, but to think that his orientation might help them get where they wanted to be in coming seasons—it was worth looking into. He was good at hockey, but he was good at other things too.

The GPS announced that his destination was on the left and he slammed on the brake, not because he was in that much danger of missing it but because he was starting to feel nervous and itchy, knowing what was waiting for him in probably a very short time. He'd been given a pretty big arrival window, but he was on the late end of it, and it certainly wasn't very nice to keep an omega waiting. He turned down a winding drive.

He could smell the omega before he even stepped out of the car.

Partial suppressants, he'd been told. The omega would be on a small dose so he wouldn't become pregnant. If the scent was any indication, the dose hadn't suppressed the heat _that_ much.

He stopped partway up the driveway and surveyed the surroundings. The house was gorgeous, floodlit, impeccably landscaped. Moving back from its impressive façade, it seemed to melt into the darkness and the trees that surrounded it. The omega was back there, somewhere. He felt the wanting, hot and sweet, start to trickle through his veins.

He was unsure how to proceed. Ring the bell? It seemed a bit formal, considering what he was there for. At the end of the day, though, this was a business meeting. And he'd been raised better than to just wander onto someone's property and announce, "Hi, I'm here to fuck your omega."

It was a rumpled and bleary Joe Sakic who answered the door. "You could've just walked around," he said, by way of greeting.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't sure if—" he cleared his throat. "Sorry."

"It's fine. We were starting to think you were going to be a no-show. Seabrook, right? Follow me."

What followed, Brent thought, had to be the weirdest meet-and-greet ever; while he was shaking hands with Sakic and Patrick Roy, their most promising young talent was writhing in the grass a few yards away. They made small talk and Sakic asked Brent if he had any questions, but Brent was simply hoping he hadn't started to drool.

"Come up for a chat before you leave," Sakic said at last, and Brent took that as his cue.

Before he set off across the lawn, though, he looked each man in the eye and said, "I really want to thank you both for this opportunity. I'm definitely looking forward to—" He broke off, not wanting to say anything that could be deemed unprofessional. "Thank you," he finished lamely, but not before he caught Roy looking like he was holding back a laugh.  

"He got nice manners," Roy said genially.

Sakic ignored him. He held out a hand in Duchene's direction, and Brent set off.

He hadn't really drawn up a game plan; he had a few tricks, a few signature moves, but he was mostly planning to play it by ear. At any rate, Brent knew better than to go out there and _wham, bam, thank you, ma'am. Er, Matt_. Duchene was a potential teammate, and Sakic and Roy needed to know how they were going to interact, whether they could bring out the best in each other. Simply climbing on and climbing off would look selfish at best, lazy at worst. Sex was a team effort, was how Brent had always looked at it, every bit as much as hockey. You had to know how to give and take, you had to be able to sense what the other guy was going to do and what he wanted. Then, if you were lucky, that was when you scored.

Besides, Patrick Roy had said he had nice manners. He wasn't about to throw that back in the man's face. Guys who went out of their head and tried to jump on every omega they got a whiff of gave alphas a bad name, and Brent was eager to prove he wasn't one of those.    

The lawn seemed much larger than it had when he'd viewed it from the patio, and before he was halfway to Duchene, his head was swimming with the omega's scent. For a little while he tried not to breathe too deeply, but he soon gave up fighting it. What was the use?

There were people who would try to tell you that all omegas smelled alike; Brent always figured those people either hadn't been around very many omegas, or they hadn't been paying very close attention. (And why wouldn't you pay attention?) True, they all shared a basic quality—the thickness, the heaviness, that thing that made you want to fucking bury yourself in the very scent. But they each had their own . . . notes, like the way people talked about wine. Raants smelled like a cold morning and Shawzy smelled like straight-up caffeine, if caffeine had a smell, and Duncs—Duncs just smelled like home.

Honey, Brent thought, as he drew closer. Duchene smelled like honey: sweet, but with an earthy perfume underneath, just dark enough to belie the sweetness.

Duchene was lying on his belly in the grass. Brent could see the stakes he'd been tied to a little ways further on; he was unsure why they would have untied him. Maybe the heat was waning—doubtful, Brent thought, honey hot and thick in his veins—or maybe they'd just wanted to make him more comfortable as the night went on, but for whatever reason, there was only a length of chain tethering the man to one of the small wickets in the grass. Someone must have tended to him between rounds, too; he didn't look like someone who'd been tied up and used as a toy for the last several hours. But there were little things—a smudge of dirt on his bicep, a bit of grass clinging to the crease of his knee—that suggested it'd been a long night.

Duchene raised his head and squinted. It had to be hard for him to see in very much detail, the way the yard was lit, but he clearly knew someone was approaching. He dropped his forehead back down onto his arm. When he spoke, his voice was tattered. "Just when I think I'm out . . ." he mumbled. "They pull me back in." This was followed by a manic giggle.

 _Great_ , Brent thought; Duchene had literally been fucked silly. He was unsure how to respond. He took another step closer and crouched; nobody liked having a hungry alpha looming over them. Well, someone probably did, but Brent didn't want to assume. "Sorry I'm late."

"Better late than never," Duchene sing-songed. He turned over mostly onto his back and gazed up at Brent, his eyes heavy-lidded. "You . . . are very big," he murmured appreciatively.

"Um. Thanks."   Brent sat back on his heels and before he realized what he was doing, he started unbuckling his belt. _Slow down_ , he told himself, as he drew it through the loops. Duchene shivered at the sound. "And you look fucking incredible right now," Brent said simply.    

And he really did, lying there with one arm flung back over his head, his hair mussed irreparably, his cock lolling against his hip. Brent thought he looked something out of a piece of art: something with a lot of ladies in veils standing around weeping, or some huge ripped Greek guy stealing him out of his bed. Somehow, none of that really seemed like the right thing to say.  

Instead, Brent stood and cast his belt aside. The rest of his clothes followed in short order. While he stripped, Duchene flopped back over onto his belly, giving Brent the opportunity to peruse his undeniable assets. Sure, he had a nice round ass and strong shoulders and thighs for days—he played hockey, didn't he?—but on top of all that, something about Duchene gave the impression that he was particularly . . . well-kept. Again, Brent wondered about who had tended to Duchene throughout the night. Fleetingly, inexplicably, his thoughts lit on Roy.

Then Duchene flexed one knee—an omega version of an engraved invitation—and all thoughts of anything except the matter at hand fell out of Brent's head.

"Showoff," he muttered. Duchene ducked his head, but Brent didn't miss his smirk. He sank to the grass and shouldered between the younger man's thighs. "What, you're making me do all the work? Spread."  

With a pained sound, Duchene reached back and did as he was told. Brent settled in.

It wasn't that Brent _really_ wanted to torture the kid; it was more that he just really, really loved using his mouth. He liked adding an extra, unexpected catalyst to the inevitable reaction. A lot of omegas didn't bother to expect anything resembling foreplay, so Brent got kind of a bang out of surprising them. And their responses were always so telling. He usually knew where to go from there, depending on whether they curled in on themselves, as if to try to get away, or melted into quivering puddles, or huffed and moaned and humped the grass, like Duchene was doing right now.

Oh, this was going to be good.

Brent licked him open until his own cock felt like fucking granite and he was more or less entranced by Duchene's sounds, which had devolved a bit into the animalistic. The trance was disturbed when Duchene managed actual words.

"Gimme your cock," he panted. He sounded so desperate, so totally wrecked; Brent wanted to swallow him whole. "Fucking give it to me."

But Brent couldn't tear himself away from Duchene's ass. "Not yet," he said mechanically.

"Fuck you, I am so fucking ready," Duchene shot back.

Brent chuckled. "All right, well, maybe I'm not ready." It was so perfect as it was, hands and mouth full of Duchene's flesh, that thick, honey-sweet scent. Brent could comfortably have stayed right where he was for—well, a little longer, anyway. He did still have a job to do. He smiled at the desperate assortment of filthy words pouring from Duchene's mouth and at the sweat pooling in the small of his back. Brent lapped at it with the flat of his tongue, and Jesus Christ, he'd drunk things out of the Stanley fucking Cup that hadn't tasted that good. Drawing back a little, he watched in fascination as one small, perfect drop of sweat rolled away and disappeared past the curve of Duchene's hip. Something about it practically made Brent want to cry. Instead he lunged forward, chasing that drop of sweat, nipping at the flesh of Duchene's waist.

Duchene yelped and stiffened; Brent managed to stop himself just short of making a mark. Somehow, he felt it'd be bad form. He'd been late to the party to begin with—claiming with a mark wasn't really necessary—and once again he had the vague notion that Roy's stake in all this was much larger than that of coach. He didn't want to step on toes.

Brent pressed a wet, sucking kiss to the spot instead. " _God_. I want to fucking _drink_ you."

"Just fucking fuck me. Please."

Brent was already pulling back, hauling Duchene up by the hips and arranging him just so, when the younger man peered back over his shoulder and purred, "Nobody else teased me like this."

Brent fisted his cock and ran it up and down Duchene's crack a couple of times. He steadied them both with his other hand on Duchene's hip. "Nobody else gave you what I'm gonna give you, either," he vowed. He lined up and shoved inside.

Both of them swore at once, and Brent managed one note of breathless laughter that quickly became a gasp. He dragged himself back and thrust again, prompting another ragged curse from Duchene. Brent leaned close. "Still think I'm a tease?"

The man underneath him turned and looked over his shoulder again—and fucking _snapped_ at Brent, teeth flashing in the semi-darkness. Apparently, Duchene still felt Brent had more to prove.

So Brent doubled down and set out to prove it.

By the time speech dropped away and Duchene was simply groaning, low and continuous from deep in his throat, Brent was pretty confident that he'd made his point. By the time Duchene's arms were trembling—when he was on the verge of going boneless and Brent might drive him right into the neighbor's yard if he kept going—Brent worried, for a split-second, that maybe he was laying it on a little thick. He'd gotten Duchene hot, he was making him yell, they were clicking on all cylinders—maybe it was time to wrap it up.

But hell—what else was he here for, if not to make an impression?

Brent reared back, ready to make sure that everyone in three counties knew exactly what he was doing to the omega spread out underneath him. And that was when he caught a whiff of another alpha—a strong one, close. His hips stuttered and stalled out. Duchene growled in frustration. _Fuck_.

It hadn't bothered him at all, that he hadn't been the first alpha on the scene. He'd been satisfied being the only one there now, the only one who mattered in that moment, doing his job and—from the look and sound of it—doing it reasonably well. Now, after all that, he was going to have to fight?

Brent leaned low over Duchene's back and locked an arm around his chest. Not wanting to make any sudden moves, he scented the air again, listening hard. " _Go_ ," Duchene whined. Begged. Brent shushed him, scanning the yard for the intruder.

When Brent saw him, he almost laughed: Roy, standing on the porch. Good money said his knuckles were white where he gripped the railing, taking in the show. Brent wondered if anyone had turned tail when they realized that the evening's entertainment involved banging the boss's boy. It should have been intimidating, but Brent knew how to perform on big stages. The bigger the stage, the better, is how he saw it, and this was triple overtime, Game Seven, cups and medals and legends on the line.

"They sure pulled out the stops for you, eh, kid?" he muttered as he started to move again.

Whether Duchene had been fucked beyond rational thought, or had simply chosen that unfortunate moment to start running out of steam, the words simply weren't there. He made a sort of keening sound as Brent thrust, hard and deep, but didn't answer, resting his head on his arms.

Apparently, a pep talk was in order. Perfect time for Brent to show why he wore the A in Chicago.

He buried himself and stayed there, running his hands over Duchene's body, breathing hard. "Shit," he muttered at last. "Can't fucking believe it. You been fucking all night and you still feel like a goddamn virgin." He leaned down and nosed into Duchene's hair, smelling sweat and honey and need. "How many of them were there, anyway?" Brent breathed, heavy in Duchene's ear.

"Ten, or— _nnngggh_ —twelve," Duchene slurred. "I lost count."

"They make you feel good?"

"Some of 'em."

"They take it all out of you?"

"Hell no," Duchene gritted, the words jolted out of him as Brent snapped his hips hard.

"Good. Because I want you . . . " Brent paused, distracted by the side of Duchene's throat. At the salt taste of him, the ground tilted a little; Brent shuddered and tried again. "I want you to give me everything you have left." He sucked at the spot on Duchene's neck, scraped his teeth over it. "Come on. Come here."

Brent dragged him up—and god, he really was a hair's-breadth away from being dead weight—and helped situate Duchene on his lap. He ran a hand up and down Duchene's thigh (those fucking thighs, Brent thought, dizzy) and hoped he was doing the right thing. "Come on, baby," he muttered. "Up to you now." He slipped his fingers into the young man's hair and pulled him in for a kiss—a calculated risk, he thought, but the situation seemed to call for it. Duchene hummed against Brent's lips, around his tongue, coming back to life.

"That's it, that's it," Brent urged. He cupped Duchene's ass in both hands, helping him lift up a little, encouraging. "Come on, boy, take what you want."

Duchene settled slowly down onto Brent's cock and paused, slack-jawed and glazed-eyed, catching his breath. "God, I need . . . one more time," he pleaded at last. "Sometimes the last one is . . . it's so fucking . . . just out of reach."

"I know," Brent murmured, stroking Duchene's back. "I know. Take it, now. Go on. I want to give it to you."

Duchene closed his eyes, nodded, and obeyed. Instead of the blazing pace Brent was expecting, though, Duchene ground down ever so slowly, with control so maddening and astonishing that it took Brent's breath away. Low and steady, he kept up the praise and encouragement while Duchene rode him at a slow burn. Getting him there was all that mattered. Brent's desire to watch Duchene come was completely unholy.

"That's it, let it out—wake up the neighbors," Brent goaded, feeling muscles working beneath his palms. "Let 'em know you're about to come— _ooohhh_ —gonna come so hard, probably gonna pass out." A little crease appeared between Duchene's eyebrows, and he ground down again, wriggling, seeking more. Brent pushed him down by the shoulders.

"You're gonna come like a fucking volcano," Brent promised him. "Then probably sleep for a week when this is all over, huh? And you're gonna be dreaming all about the time you got dicked twelve times in one night and lived to tell about it. You're a fucking champ, kiddo."

Duchene's face was desperation and delight in one. He stopped moving, took Brent's face in his hands, and kissed him, hard, ecstatically. His hands slipped to Brent's shoulders.

"You're good," he breathed, a hazy, puckish smile on his handsome face.

Brent stared back—at his coppery hair in disarray, at the museum-quality shoulders, at his skin that practically glowed with sex and good health—and wanted to tell him he was more than good, he was a fucking dream come true, better than Brent could have hoped for. He fought it back. "You too," he managed.

It must have been enough for Duchene, though; slowly, slowly, it was up and then down once, twice, _allllmoooost_ three more times and suddenly he was coming, hands in Brent's hair, with a yell of helpless joy.

Brent couldn't thrust the way he wanted to, not sitting up with Duchene's twisting, squeezing weight pressing him down; there was no place for the tension to go except up, so he wrapped his arms around Duchene and held him tight, tight as he could, wanting him to feel every inch of Brent for as long as possible. Duchene kept on coming and kept on yelling, and when he locked his ankles at the small of Brent's back, Brent followed suit, shouting into Duchene's shoulder, then into the sky.

They floated for what seemed like days. Hours, more likely. Maybe only a few minutes. Long enough for Brent to end up on his back in the grass with Duchene sprawled on top of him. Long enough for the breeze to cool his skin, and for the overwhelming scent of honey to have more or less faded from the air. Long enough for Roy to emerge from the fog that seemed to surround them, and lean toward Duchene, murmuring.

"I take him now. I got him," Roy said. He wasn't looking at Brent when he said it, but his expression was a little intense and Brent figured that was his cue to get the hell out of the way.    

Feeling clumsy and a little stoned, he struggled to hands and knees and then to his feet, then scanned the area for his clothes. He gathered them slowly, while watching Roy gently escort Duchene across the lawn. What Duchene had just done for the sake of his team—Brent shook his head, his mind blown. Anyone who would do that was someone Brent would want on his team. The way Roy had swooped in to administer aftercare left no question in Brent's mind that he would do anything for his players, and who could say no to that? Plus, it was sort of hot. Never mind the fragile balance of Duchene's belonging to Roy; there'd be time to learn how to navigate that later. He hoped, anyway.

In the meantime, he was once again faced with a question of etiquette; he decided he better at least put his pants on before strolling into Joe Sakic's living room.

When Brent entered the house, it seemed that Sakic had bigger things on his mind than Brent's pants. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, a little flustered. "Water? Bottle of Gatorade?"

"No, I—no. I'm fine," Brent said, at the same moment he realized he was ravenously hungry. He didn't feel right asking for anything, though. He nervously threw his shirt on instead. Roy and Duchene were nowhere to be found.

"Patrick and I liked what we saw," Sakic said, bluntly enough to make Brent's face heat up. "And, ah—I'm reasonably sure Matty did as well."

"That's good to hear. I . . . enjoyed myself." He blushed harder, but he couldn't think what would have sounded better.

"You're set up for the night, right?" Brent nodded; the Colorado contingent had taken care of everything. "All right. Thank you for being here. We'll be talking soon." Something in the man's tone suggested certainty, not formality.

"Mr. Sakic, I really can't thank you enough for meeting with me—"

"I think there'll be chances to thank me later," he replied. "Now, if you wouldn't mind seeing yourself out—well. It's been a long night."

Brent headed back out to find that the long night had tipped over into a bluish, clean-smelling early morning. He noted the delicious mix of exhaustion and buoyancy that had settled over him, and savored it. It was a feeling he only ever got from two things . . . and hockey was the other one.  

 _Could get used to this_ , was the first thing he thought, twirling the keys to his rental on one finger. He would have to talk with his agent as soon as possible.

 _Sleep. Shower. Food._ Those were his next thoughts, as he threw the car into gear. Well, in some order. He eased down the driveway, trying to remember where to find that one healthy place that Tazer loved, the place that put honey in the granola. Or maybe he'd find someplace to get a fucking big burrito. He lowered the window, turned on the radio, and inwardly pronounced the evening's events a success.

He couldn't be certain of his future beyond breakfast, but he felt comfortable assuming it was going to be sweet.


End file.
